The copper box

By J. S. Fletcher

ALTHOUGH it was springtide by the calendar, and already some little way advanced, the snow time was by no means over in that wild Border country. The exact date was April 19. I fix it by the fact that my birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent that one, the twenty-third, in an old-fashioned hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it by treating myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the house afforded. It may have been the bottle of wine—but more likely it was sheer ignorance and presumption—that prompted me next morning to attempt what proved to be an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set out immediately after breakfast intending before nightfall to make a complete circuit of the country which lies between Wooler and the Scottish border, going round by Kirknewton, Coldburn, and the Cheviot, and getting back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill and Kelpie Strand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Librorium Editions
• Release date: May 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9782385746582

J. S. Fletcher

Joseph Smith Fletcher (7 February 1863 – 30 January 1935) was an English journalist and author. He wrote more than 230 books on a wide variety of subjects, both fiction and non-fiction, and was one of the most prolific English writers of detective fiction. (Wikipedia)

Book preview

THE COPPER BOX

BY

J. S. FLETCHER

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385746582

I  The Lady of Kelpieshaw

II  The Second Stranger

III  Copper

IV  Midnight Warning

V  Sir Charles Sperrigoe

VI  The Irrepressible Newsman

VII  What the Dying Man Said

VIII  One Minute Past Midnight

IX  The Whitesmith’s Parlour

X  Known at the Crown

XI  Back to Elizabeth

XII  The Palkeney Motto

THE COPPER BOX

THE COPPER BOX

I

The Lady of Kelpieshaw

A

LTHOUGH it was springtide by the calendar, and already some little way advanced, the snow time was by no means over in that wild Border country. The exact date was April 19. I fix it by the fact that my birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent that one, the twenty-third, in an old-fashioned hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it by treating myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the house afforded. It may have been the bottle of wine—but more likely it was sheer ignorance and presumption—that prompted me next morning to attempt what proved to be an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set out immediately after breakfast intending before nightfall to make a complete circuit of the country which lies between Wooler and the Scottish border, going round by Kirknewton, Coldburn, and the Cheviot, and getting back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill and Kelpie Strand. That would have been a big walk on a long and fair summer day; in the uncertainty of a northern April it was a rash venture, which landed me in a highly unpleasant situation before the close of the afternoon. The morning was bright and promising, and for many enjoyable hours all went well. But about three o’clock came a disappearance of the sun and a suspicious darkening of the sky and lowering of temperature; before long snow began to fall, and in a fashion with which I, a Southerner, was not at all familiar. It was thick, it was blinding, it was persistent; it speedily obscured tracks, and heaped itself up in hollows; I began to have visions of being lost in it. And between five and six o’clock I found myself in this position—as far as I could make out from my pocket-map, I was at some point of the Angle between the Cheviot, Cairn Hill, and Hedgehope Hill and at the western extremity of Harthope Burn, but for all practical purposes I might as well have been in the heart of the Andes. I could just make out the presence of the three great hills, but I could see nothing of any farmstead or dwelling; what was worse, no house, wayside inn, or village was marked on my map—that is, within any reasonable distance. As for a path, I had already lost the one I was on, and the snow by that time had become a smooth thick white carpet in front of me; I might be safe in stepping farther on that carpet, and I might sink into a hole or bog and be unable to get out. And the nearest indicated place—Middleton—was miles and miles away, and darkness was coming, and coming quickly.

The exact spot in which I made these rough reckonings was at the lee side of a coppice of young fir, whereat I had paused to rest a while and to consider what was best to be done. Clearly, there was only one thing to do!—to struggle on and trust to luck. I prepared for that by taking a pull at my flask, in which, fortunately, there was still half its original contents of whisky and water left, and finishing the remains of my lunch. But the prospect that faced me when I presently left my shelter and rounded the corner of the coppice was by no means pleasant. The snow was falling faster and thicker, and darkness was surely coming. It looked as if I was either to struggle through the snow for more miles than I knew of, or be condemned to creep under any shelter I could find and pass a miserable night. But even then my bad luck was on the turn. Going onward and downward, from off the moorland towards the valley, I suddenly realised that I had struck some sort of road or made track; it was hard and wide, as I ascertained by striking my stick through the snow at various places. And just as suddenly, a little way farther to the east, I saw, bright and beckoning, the lights of a house.

The dusk was now so much fallen, and the whirling snow-flakes so thick that I had come right up to it before I could make out what manner of house it was that I had chanced upon so opportunely. It stood a little back from the road, on its north side, and in a sort of recess in the moorland, with the higher ground shelving down to its walls on all sides except that on which I stood. There was a courtyard all round it; on three sides of this the walls were unusually high, but on mine lower—low enough to enable me to see what stood inside. And that was as queer-looking a house as ever I had seen. Its centre was a high, square tower, with a battlemented head; from its west and east angles lower buildings projected—lower, yet of considerable height; at one of the angles of these wings, connecting it and the tower, there was a round turret, with a conical top—altogether the place was so mediæval in appearance that it made me think of marauding barons, cattle forays, and all the rest of it. That the house was ancient I gathered from one circumstance—there was not a window anywhere in its lower parts. These seemed to be of solid masonry, unpierced by window or door; the lights I had seen came from windows fifteen or twenty feet above the level of the courtyard—one in the round turret, one in the left wing, a third in the right.

It was not until I was in the courtyard, knee-deep in drifting snow, that I made out where the door stood. It was at the foot of the turret, and when I reached it, I saw that it was in keeping with the rest of the place—a stout oak affair, black with age, studded with great square-headed iron nails, and set in a frame as sturdy as itself. It was one of those doors which look, being shut, as if it would never open, and when after a brief inspection I beat loudly on its formidable timbers—no bell being visible—it was with a wonder as to whether such a feeble summons would carry through that evident thickness.

But the great door swung back almost at once. There, before me, a lamp held above her head, stood an elderly woman, a tall, gaunt, hard-featured woman, who first started with obvious surprise at seeing me, and then stared at me with equally apparent suspicion. There was no friendliness in her face, and the lack of it drove out of my head whatever it was that I had meant to say. But I managed to stammer an inquiry.

Oh—er—can you tell me where I am? I said. I mean—what is the nearest village, or inn? I’m making my way to Wooler, and——

It seemed to me that the door was about to be closed in my face; certainly the woman narrowed the already small opening between us.

There’s nothing’ll be nearer than Middleton, she answered, and you’ll keep straight on the road outside, and that’ll be maybe six miles.

Six miles—in this snow! I exclaimed. I’ll be——

There’s nothing nearer, she made haste to say. There’s no house at all between this and Middleton. And I’d advise you to be getting along, for the snow’ll be far worse ere the night’s fallen than what it is, and the road is not——

The voice of a girl, clear, musical, and with a touch of masterfulness in it, broke in on the woman’s harsh accents.

Tibbie! What is it?—who is there?

The woman frowned. But—involuntarily—she opened the door wider. I saw then that she was standing in a square stone hall of very small dimensions, and that from her right hand stone steps, obviously set in a newel stair, gave access to the upper regions of this queer old place. And I saw more—I saw a pair of slim and shapely ankles, in smart stockings and shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the projection of the stair out of all else.

It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his way, said the janitor. He’s for Wooler, and I’ve told him——

For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, Tibbie! Why——

The smart shoes suddenly tripped down the stair. Before I could realise my luck their owner was confronting me with curiosity and interest. I suppose I looked pretty forlorn and tramp-like; my water-proof coat was none of the newest, and I was wearing a disreputable, favourite old hat. But I uncovered and made my best bow. And if I stared it was because the light of the old woman’s lamp showed me the prettiest girl I had ever had the good fortune to see. Perhaps, because we were both young, I made bold to smile at her—knowingly.

You think I shall be—lost in the snow and found dead in the morning? I suggested.

That’s precisely what you will be if you try to reach Wooler to-night, she answered, with some liveliness. Such a thing’s impossible! even if you knew the way, and I think you don’t. Of course, you must stay here. My guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but——

The master is not one for strangers, miss, interrupted the old woman. His orders——

The girl turned on her with a flash of her grey eyes that gave me a good notion of her imperious temper and general masterfulness.

Fiddle-de-dee, Tibbie! she exclaimed. Your master would have a good deal to say if we turned anybody from his door on a night like this. You must come in, she went on, turning smilingly to me. Mr. Parslewe is the most hospitable man alive, and if he were in he’d welcome you heartily. I don’t know whether he’ll manage to get home to-night or not. But I’m at home! she concluded with a sudden glint in her eye. Come up the stair!

I waited for no second invitation. She was already tripping up the stair, holding her skirts daintily away from the grey stone wall, and I hastened to follow. We climbed some twenty steps, the old woman